1: Tales can be posted on your blogs & then just add to the wee linky tool, or add as a comment if you don’t have a blog.

2: A word count of 300 to 500.

3: Try to scare me, or at the very least create a little bit of darkness.

4: This will be a fortnightly (two weeks) challenge from when the post goes live, so you’ve got plenty thinking time.

So come on what are you waiting for, go find your inner demons and get your scare on!

I've never used so many exclamation marks in my life! And I took all 500 words to do it. I could add another hundred or so to smooth out the rough edges, but then it wouldn't fit the challenge!

The Wings of Death

"Where's Billy?"
"Not sure, Jacob. Said he was going outside to catch butterflies, of all things."
"In October? It's nearly dark. You know, Rachael, that boy ain't got a lick of sense."
Rachael pulled back the curtain, but little was visible past the glow of the lantern on the porch. She wasn't worried; it was nearly time for supper and she was sure he would return soon.
As expected, only a few minutes passed before Billy marched in and sat near the fireplace. He held a small bag, which seemed to be the focus of his attention. His father sat reading on the opposite side of the room.
"Jacob?" Rachael called from the kitchen. "Can you get that boy to help out a little here?"
"Billy! Get in there and help your mother."
"Can't. I'm busy."
"Busy? Don't sass me or I'll make your backside busy!"
"I'm playing with my butterflies right now."
"Butterflies?"
"Yeah. See?"
Billy opened the pouch and pulled out a handful of the winged creatures.
"Damn boy! Get those things away from me! Those ain't butterflies! They're Death's Head moths! What's wrong with you, bringing those things in here? If they land on someone, they're marked—marked to die!"
"I don't care!"
"You'll care when I take my belt to you."
"Oh, yeah? Well, here!" Billy said while tossing the insects at his father. "Now you're marked!"
The tiny creatures swirled around his head; a few entangled themselves in his long beard. Jacob swung wildly, batting at the insects, and trying to brush them from his clothes as he yelled, "Get 'em off me!" Desperate, he stumbled backward, his foot catching the leg of a chair, and he fell, striking his head on the stone base of the fireplace. There was a soft moan, then blood flowed from his temple.
"Jacob!"
Rachael ran to her husband and lifted his head, her hands quickly coated in crimson and dead moths. "Hateful child! You've killed your own father!
"I don't care! He was always looking for a reason to whip me. I'm glad he's dead!"
"But he's your father, for God's sake!"
"He never did nothin' for me. There wasn't a day in my life he didn't make harder than it needed to be."
"Maybe so, but he kept a roof over our heads and food on the table. And it won't be any easier when the sheriff finds out. He'll lock you up for sure. Better get out of this house while you can. Won't be able to keep the farm anyway with Jacob gone, so get out!"
"I ain't going nowhere," Billy said. He sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and played with the drawstring on the bag. "I'm hungry."
"Hungry? You can think about food when your father lies dead not ten feet away?"
"Can't help it. I'm hungry."
"And what makes you think I'm gonna give you any supper?"
Billy held up the bag.
"Because I still have one more left."